


Acts 4:6

by spike21



Series: The Gospels [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spike21/pseuds/spike21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-kiss Alex angst, formerly a snippet. A companion piece to "John 1:23"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acts 4:6

"Acts 4:6"  
by Spike

Door pressed shut so quiet and out in the hallway Alex leaned against the wall, breathing hard.

Christ oh Christ that was close. Oh, but the stubbled heat of his cheek, the smell of him...faint reek of fear, this morning's cologne and Alex can still smell it on his collar... And fuck that. Fuck *that* --did he listen? Did he *hear*? That was the point here.

//And is he going to come rushing out that door any second now and shoot you with your own fucking gun, you idiot. Move. *Move*. //

So he moved. But out on the street, walking fast, shoulders hunched against the cold, he didn't feel any clearer. All he could do was play the tape over and over in his head. Waiting in the dark. Magnesium sparkle of adrenaline at the sound of the key in the lock. That secret moment when Mulder entered, unaware of him, bent down -- coiled spring -- and he could still feel the impact of flesh-and-bone in his shoulder. A righteous tackle, solid and clean and they'd gone down.

Rolled and scrabbled. and when he'd come out on top he'd felt such singing triumph he had to gloat. Had to hold it over Mulder's head because he'd been dreaming that line for nearly a year.

//I can beat you with one hand you bastard, son of a bitch, cocksucker -- oh yeah... // and triumph blown out like a fucking candle. //...how you beat yourself these days. // Like a fucking punch to the heart. Hurt. And fuck fuck...

//fucking wimp what the fuck do you care if he cares? If he knows? Two points for flinching, take your lumps and move the fuck *on* Special K... //

And walking, walking. Long legs eating up the concrete. Hegel Place was a pool of chill darkness -- dark facades with warm lights glowing and distant barking dogs. But go where? He'd had a plan, somewhere, but his whole brain seemed to be knocked off its tracks, skewing around in his skull like some kind of crazy machine. Tape machine, won't let him go:

//I'm not here to kill you Mulder. I'm here to help you.// And he'd been pretty fucking scared hadn't he? Made a joke of his last words, but he was scared.

//You knew he could feel it right there between the gun and his gut. The end of everything in your hand. One hand. Isn't that how you beat yourself...? Oh fuck *you*... fuck you...// And Jesus, Alexander, get a grip. Stop. Think. Stay alive.

He stopped in his tracks, reached automatically for his weapon, remembering even before he could stop his hand that it was not where it should be. Shit. He'd really gone too far. But still, the old man's speech had just made Mulder laugh. And he'd realized for the first time that Mulder really had lost it -- lost the drive, the lunatic persistence, had given the fuck up. And that just scared the living shit out of him. Didn't know why, but it felt like somebody took a great big ice cream scoop to his guts. Mulder had laughed, really laughed -- nice laugh -- oh Christ but had all gotten tangled up with the other thing. The other goddamn thing he couldn't get out of his head and he'd -- Christ -- he'd kissed him. Fucking kissed Mulder and this was nuts...

Nuts. Standing in the middle of fucking Hegel Place sprouting wood when the whole world was going to hell.

And fuck the goddamn world and all the goddamn people in it, because all he goddamn wanted to goddamn do was turn around and go the fuck back.

But, no. Now that he was breathing again. No, he wasn't going to go back. And whoa...the clickclickclick of little heels and, Jesus! Scully! On the other side of the street but Alex was taking no chances, did his fade. Scully. She'd be heading up there now. Or would she just stand outside under Mulder's window, looking up? No. That's what dirty little *Kryceks* got to do. Pure and holy Scullys never waited, never longed... She'd be up there in a minute and... Jesus...just by being there she'd erase it all. Her thumb on Mulder's cheek. Mulder's arms around her, pressing his face into her hair to rub him off, rub off the kiss -- his *kiss*, his *mark* -- get Scully's lemony perfume on his cheek instead and pretend it was nothing. Nothing. It *was* nothing. *He* was nothing. No-one. Nothing but smoke and fucking shadows now. More invisible every day.

And here he was again. Shadows like old friends and the fucking cold October wind blew right through him. He had hours to kill before he was supposed to meet the old man again. Hours.

And so fucking wired. The taste, the stubbled roughness of Mulder's cheek still on his lips. Fucking *kissed*... Probably should just hole up somewhere, jerk off, take a shower. Jerk off again. And he could picture it, his own hand stripping his soapy cock, or later, on the grim coverlet with spit -- ah shit. Not what he wanted. Not at all. What he wanted...Mulder's hand, those long, strong fingers gentle for a change; that flat, throaty voice right at his ear...

//beat yourself these days...Isn't that...?//

Son of a *bitch*... and he hadn't even realized he'd started walking again. Away from Mulder's, thank god. If only the fucking movie would stop. Or go beyond. Except there wasn't anything beyond except his fantasies. Sick fantasies, dreams so good he could taste them: Mulder on his knees. Mulder pressed against a wall. A bank of payphones... no, fuck, another movie he needed to forget.

"Finish it... Do it to me..." *Begging*, for Christ's sake. The remembered whine in his voice made him cringe, shove his hand deeper into his pocket. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. And after that, dick in his hand too hard to piss but good and clack of heels, women's shoes -- he'd giggled -- so surreal -- and then the sudden slam, his cheek against the cold tile and the strange cold crawl across his neck...No! God don't go there, Alex -- don't. Bit down hard on his lip and pain and copper made it go away. For now. He'd dream the dream tonight. Couldn't be helped. All fucking Mulder's fault. Or not-fucking Mulder.

Who hadn't pulled away. Whose mouth had sketched something like the echo of a kiss and stayed where Alex had left him. Not moving. Eyes closed. And the crazy freedom of it -- his own gun in Mulder's hands, his kiss on Mulder's cheek, the fate of the world hanging between them and everything shining out his fucking eyes as he backed into the shadows -- and then something, like a cartoon coyote looking down that third step off the cliff and it suddenly hit him what he'd *done*. Bottom dropping out and he'd gone all cold and heard something like his father's voice from his own mouth: good luck to you my friend. And fled.

Still fleeing. Walking faster, strides lengthening and then he was running. As if he could get away but, Christ, he could feel it all piling up behind him, just like thunder.

Thunder. And he didn't realize where he'd been running to until he found himself outside the building and looking up.

Big, *big* mistake. But...

Shit.

His teeth were chattering, shivers rattling his bones like taser hits, and getting colder every second even if that wasn't why, just...

//Jesus not alone tonight alone tonight I *can't*...// and even while his brain was still scrabbling like a trapped rat in his skull, his body *knew*, was moving again -- step, grab and hoist and he was climbing the fire-escape, the rough scrape and clang of his boots on rusty iron like the terrifying clank of iron locks -- and even so he crouched a long time at the window, staring in, before he could bring himself to rap a knuckle against the pane.

Longer still for the lump under the covers to stir, to rise blinking and sleep-mussed and stumble to the window to gape slack-jawed and comical back at him through the glass. Alex almost laughed, except it wasn't funny anymore.

But the window was already opening and John's hand was reaching for him, strong and clean and -- Alex slid numb fingers across the upraised palm -- so *warm*...

//Jesus, John, didn't your mother teach you never to take a drowning swimmer's hand? One hand... beat yourself... we're both going to hate me for this in the morning...//

Sudden sense-memory of that strong, slim hand so gentle on his cheek, his chest, his cock...

Deserving so much more than...this. But his hand kept right on moving, gripped John's hand tight enough to grate the slender bones as Alex left the cold behind one more time and came inside.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Acts 4:6: ...and John, and Alexander..."

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note, 1999: Thanks: To the lovely lady Ladonna for kind and generous beta: Wile E. was just for you, hon. And to Sue aka Dr. Ruthless for a great idea that saved me from impending novelitis.
> 
> These are just barely sequels and/or prequels to my K/Byers story "John". In fact, I'd almost prefer if John kind of continued to exist in its own little universe where reality never catches up with the boys. However these stories insisted on being written so, if it helps (ha!), the chronology is as follows:  
> "John" takes place somewhere between Apocrypha and Tunguska  
> "Acts 4:6" takes place immediately after RatB  
> "John 1:23" takes place somewhere between S.R. 819 and Two Fathers and flashes back.  
> I think.  
> Spike


End file.
